The Preacher's Bride (12 page)

Elizabeth’s already weakened legs turned as soft as cream and she grabbed on to Anne to keep from collapsing. “What happened? Why are they being punished?”

“Listen.” Anne nodded toward the public green, where a man was stepping forward to face the crowd.

The patch on his coat signified him as the Bedell of Beggars. He limped, dragging one foot along behind him.

“I assign these vagrants to receive twenty lashes apiece and spend one hour in public disgrace for their crimes.” The man’s voice rang out over the gathering.

“No.” Elizabeth covered her mouth to stifle a cry.

The man pointed at Lucy. “This one for harboring a vagrant without permission and for wandering the streets of Bedford as a vagrant herself in deliberate idleness and vice.”

His finger shifted to Martha. “And this woman for her illegality in residing in this parish, her idleness, and vice.”

“Oh, Lucy,” Elizabeth moaned. Martha was only one vagrant among the many that passed through the parish. Surely the churchwardens would make better use of their money assisting the beggars, rather than paying the informants who drew their attention to the presence of the rogues.

“After their punishment for laziness and other vices,” the Bedell of Beggars continued, “these slothful, sinful vagrants will be thrust from this parish and sent to a house of correction to learn diligence and work.”

“No,” whispered Elizabeth with a jolt of urgency. The house of correction, the bridewell, the workhouse. They were all names for the same place: the prison of death. She couldn’t allow the Bedell to send Lucy there—or anywhere.

She grabbed Anne’s arm with trembling hands and turned away from the window. “Take me down there, Anne. I must do something to stop this.”

“Sister Norton was right.” Anne gave her a shaky smile. “You’ll make everything right.”

Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to tell her young sister she had absolutely no idea how to stop the horror unfolding before their eyes. What could she do when the Bedell of Beggars had already pronounced his verdict and was even now carrying it out while she stumbled down the stairs?

When they floundered to the bottom and shuffled outside to the front of the bakehouse, Sister Norton was waiting on the street. She rushed to Anne’s aid and reached for Elizabeth.

Sister Norton slid her long strong arm around Elizabeth’s middle and held her up as they stood under the parapet. Elizabeth strained to see through the crowd. Her father and Henry peered out the bakehouse window, its shutters open, the top one propped upward, providing an awning, and the bottom one forming a counter with only a few loaves and pastries left for sale.

Elizabeth caught a flash of Lucy, enough to see that the Bedell had slashed open her bodice and yanked it to her waist, leaving not only her back exposed, but her front as well.

Heat leapt to life in Elizabeth’s face and made a burning trail through her body. Her innocent Puritan mind couldn’t imagine anything more torturous than having to endure a public display of her bare body. She was sure a beating would pale in comparison.

“Ah, ah, the poor, poor dear.” Sister Norton shook her head and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“What will you do, Elizabeth?” Anne’s voice was edged with agitation. “You must do something quickly.”

Elizabeth’s mind worked as slowly as her legs. She fixed her gaze on the muck on the ground. The slap of the whip against bare flesh and the agonized cry that followed tightened her body.

“Hurry! Hurry!” Anne’s words ended in a sob.

Elizabeth glanced at Lucy long enough to see the Bedell of Beggars raise his arm for another strike. He thrust his hat back, and she glimpsed of his face. His thin but distinct smile carried a clear message: he took pleasure in his job.

“That man.” Sister Norton shook her head. “He’s not fit for such a position, even if he is a Grew and son of an alderman.”

“Grew?” Elizabeth’s stomach churned. “The Bedell of Beggars is a Grew?”

“Of course, my dear. He has been for some time now. It’s only natural since he’s the eldest son of a yeoman and in line to inherit his father’s holdings.”

Her thoughts sped back to the times on Calts Lane when she had felt eyes watching her. Surely the Bedell of Beggars hadn’t stalked her.

Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. Surely not. But if he had, would he have acted under the influence of an informer?

Elizabeth’s gaze darted to the crowd and dashed from one person to the next. Her insides curdled and a sour taste settled in her mouth with the realization that Lucy’s arrest by the Beddell of Beggars had likely been no accident.

Her gaze halted on the face she’d hoped she wouldn’t find—Mrs. Grew’s. The woman wasn’t looking at the prisoners but was instead watching her, as if she were the spectacle to be observed, not Lucy.

Elizabeth wanted to groan at the trace of a smile on Mrs. Grew’s face and the satisfaction it contained. The small curve communicated more than words ever could: the Beddell of Beggars was doing her bidding. She was in control. This was what she would do to her enemies.

Weakness spread through Elizabeth. She clutched at Sister Norton to keep from falling.

The slapping of the whip and Lucy’s screams, the jeers of the crowd, Anne’s sobs, Sister Norton’s clucking—the noise hammered through her head until finally it seemed to pound through the daze.

She straightened with a burst of strength. “Anne, go fetch Brother Costin.”

Anne turned to her. Tears streaked her cheek.

“Lucy is in the employ of Brother Costin. Perchance he will be able to save her from the bridewell.”

Sister Norton’s long neck bobbed awkwardly. “True, true. As the Costin wet nurse, she
is
gainfully employed, even if she is currently homeless.”

“Begone with you, Anne.” Urgency sharpened her tone. “Begone and make haste.”

Anne wiped her eyes and cheeks with her sleeve, gave her a nod, then dashed away.

Elizabeth could only pray Providence would have John home that day instead of roaming about the countryside.

Chapter
13

The slap of Lucy’s twentieth lash cut into Elizabeth’s shredded heart, and she swayed with weakness. She had forced herself to stay and watch, even though each of Lucy’s hoarse screams made her long to return to her bed, climb under the blankets, and pull them over her head.

Instead, she clutched Sister Norton and swallowed the bile that kept rising. The last thing she wanted was to give Mrs. Grew the satisfaction of seeing her vomit in her agony.

“Poor, poor Lucy,” Sister Norton said. “Robert Grew is powerfully built. And with the strength he’s using, you would never guess he was whipping that bony little woman. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was beating a man twice his size.”

The Bedell of Beggars walked away from Lucy and left her standing in the pillory with her head hanging against the wood of the hole. He limped over to Martha. She cowered away from him and buried her head in her arms. With a jerk of his knife he ripped through her bodice and yanked it to her waist.

“Please, Lord.” Elizabeth closed her eyes to shield herself from the shame but couldn’t keep it from burning through her again. Why was such humiliation necessary?

“There’s Anne,” Sister Norton said.

Elizabeth raised her eyes to the breathless girl shouldering her way toward them. She searched behind the girl, willing John to appear. But she didn’t see his broad shoulders or ruddy hair.

Anne’s tears were answer enough that her mission had failed.

“Catherine said Brother Costin had been home all morning.” Anne spoke in a rush and coughed as she fought to fill her lungs with air. “But now he’s left for Newport Pagnell.”

“How long ago?” Elizabeth straightened her feeble knees. She would run after him herself if she had to.

“Not long. She doesn’t think they could be too far on the road out of Bedford.”

“I must go after them.” Elizabeth pulled away from Sister Norton.

Sister Norton reached for her. “My dear, you cannot possibly—”

Elizabeth stumbled to her knees and groaned with frustration. She banged her palms against the ground. Why did she have to be so helpless?

“Young lad.” Sister Norton called quickly to a boy nearby, bidding him to chase after Brother Costin with the promise of reward should he deliver the man.

“Tell him it’s urgent,” Sister Norton instructed. “If he hesitates, tell him Sister Whitbread has need of him.”

The boy scurried away.

Sister Norton lifted Elizabeth and helped her sit on an overturned barrel.

Elizabeth leaned her head against the bakehouse and closed her eyes, grateful to rest her weak body, even relieved she could no longer see the public green or the haughty tilt of Mrs. Grew’s chin.

’Twas now during the next hour of disgrace, while the Bedell left Lucy and Martha in their awkward, defenseless positions, that the crowd would heap further humiliation upon the women. She had seen it plenty enough—the throwing of rotten food, muck from the street, feces, even dead animals. No matter the crime, she’d never understood how anyone could want to participate in the jeering and shaming.

As the hour dragged, hopelessness seeped into Elizabeth. She shuddered to think Lucy could very well die that day. ’Twas not an uncommon fate for someone subjected to the pillory.

What would Thomas do if Lucy died? He was nigh to three months, still too young to survive without the milk of a wet nurse. Would they have to return him to the Birds?

Sadness settled deeper within her. They would very likely lose him once more.

She was sure Thomas would be crying by now, hungry and ready for Lucy, who would certainly not be coming to feed him this day—nor perhaps ever again.

The thought of sending Anne back to the Costins with pap-making instructions for Catherine filtered through her weary mind, but before she could rouse enough energy to call Anne, the girl rushed to her.

“He’s coming!”

Elizabeth sat up with a burst of renewed energy. “Brother Costin?”

Anne nodded and stood on the tips of her toes to see above the crowd. “He’s coming this way.”

Elizabeth smoothed her petticoat and pulled it over her ankles.

Before she could make sense of the quivering of her insides, the crowd had parted and he stood in front of her, towering above her.

“Sister Whitbread.” His chest lifted and fell in huge breaths and gave testimony to his exertion in returning to Bedford with all haste.

“Brother Costin.” She tipped her head back to peer up at him.

His shirt strained against his broad chest. “The lad said it was urgent. That you were in urgent need of help.”

“ ’Tis very urgent.” She took in the rough angles of his face and fought against a sudden rush of light-headedness.

John swiped off his large brimmed hat. His damp hair stuck to his forehead in a ring. His eyes were so blue and keen with concern that Elizabeth squirmed, especially when his gaze moved to the side of her face, to her bruise.

She wanted to turn away from him, to cover it, to hide the ugly color, but the intensity of his gaze immobilized her.

He lowered himself to one knee in front of her until they were eye level. With his focus on her bruise, he raised his fingers and poised them above the battered spot.

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. His face was near enough to see the stubble on his cheeks and the slight bend in his nose.

He hesitated only a moment before his callused fingertips brushed the edge of the bruise. “I’m truly sorry,” he whispered.

She could think of nothing but the warmth of his skin against hers. “To besure, ’twas not your fault.”

“I take full responsibility, Elizabeth.”

His touch was as soft as the wings of a butterfly. Her stomach wavered not only at his touch but also at the intimacy of her given name on his lips.

“I came earlier in the week to see you, but your father said you were too ill to receive visitors.”

So he had truly visited her? Perhaps Anne hadn’t been confused about the gift after all. The fluttering in her stomach wanted to take flight. His fingers strayed to a strand of her hair and poised there for a moment.

She sucked in a breath.

Then his thumb caressed down.

The air stuck in her lungs.

He gently slid the strand back. His gaze traveled over the long tresses that hung loosely about her face and flowed over her shoulders.

Heat rushed into her cheeks. She had been in such a hurry to get downstairs and her mind filled only with thoughts of saving Lucy, she hadn’t stopped to consider her appearance and the immodesty of her unplaited and uncovered hair.

She grabbed her loose hair and scooped it away from her face, away from his touch, to the back of her head. Her fingers, as brittle as kindling twigs, stumbled over each other as she began plaiting, trying to bring about a measure of decency.

John watched her awkward struggle. After a moment his eyes took on a glimmer, and a grin played at the corners of his lips. His gaze returned to her face, to the flames she knew danced on her cheeks.

His grin inched higher. Then his bright eyes finally settled on hers and swept her up until she was floating in the clear blue sky of them.

For a long moment his gaze held hers. The humor faded, and the darks of his eyes grew bigger.

Sister Norton cleared her throat.

Elizabeth glanced at the widow.

The woman raised her eyebrow and tilted her head toward the public green.

Elizabeth looked around, suddenly aware of the people surrounding them, watching John. Heat seared her face again.

She wanted to cover her cheeks with the coolness of her palms but clasped them in her lap instead. “ ’Tis Lucy. She’s to be taken to the bridewell.”

Confusion narrowed his eyes. “Lucy?”

“You must stop them from taking her away.”

His gaze again strayed to her bruise. “Then you’re faring well? You’re not in trouble?”

“No. ’Tis Lucy.”

His brows came together in a puzzled furrow, as if he couldn’t place the name.

“Lucy. Thomas’s wet nurse.”

Understanding as well as disinterest smoothed the lines of his face. He stood to his feet and raked a hand through his damp, matted hair.

“They’ve locked her in the pillory and nearly beaten her to death.” Elizabeth scrambled to keep John’s attention. “They’re planning to take her to the bridewell.”

He put on his hat, as though making ready to leave.

“We must save her.” She fought through her weakness to argue for Lucy’s case, to gain John’s sympathy for the woman. “We cannot let them take her away. Thomas still needs her.”

John peered over the crowd to the public green.

“No one deserves such punishment, no matter their crime.”

“What was her crime?” he finally asked.

“She harbored her sister, the one in the stocks, without permission. And she was forced to leave her home after her husband disappeared.”

“Where’s the Beddell?”

“There. Yonder.” Sister Norton pointed to the edge of the green, where the Bedell leaned against a cart, whip in hand, waiting for the hour to lapse before he loaded the women and drove them to the bridewell.

“Robert Grew?”

Sister Norton nodded.

John’s eyes narrowed. “Alderman Grew is a decent, God-fearing man. Methinks the son does not take after the father.”

Elizabeth knew very well whom the son resembled, but she wouldn’t say the words aloud. “He’ll have no cause to take Lucy to the workhouse if you make the case she is in your employ as wet nurse to your babe.”

“If she is indeed homeless, he’ll have cause.”

“Then we must find a way to ensure she’s no longer homeless,” Elizabeth said.

“She cannot live with me,” John said. “Even I know bringing her into my home would set tongues wagging.”

“Lucy will live with me.” Sister Norton straightened to her full height. “As long as the churchwarden permits it.”

“Truly?” Elizabeth sat forward. “You would take her in along with her children?”

“I’d gladly help the poor dear. It’s Sister Spencer that will need the convincing.”

“We’ll worry about her later. If indeed
you
are willing to house her, then we have no time to lose. We must save her.”

“Very well.” John tipped the barrel next to her and rolled it through the crowd. When he reached the middle of the street, he propped it on end, then hopped on top.

“Let’s pray, Anne.” Elizabeth clutched her sister’s arm and rose to her feet. “Pray that Brother Costin’s popularity and persuasive tongue will benefit him today.”

“My brothers and sisters,” John called.

A hush fell over the crowd.

“Methinks there has been no justice here today.”

“Homelessness and harboring vagrants are crimes punishable by law,” the Beddell’s voice rang out.

“So one of the women has been whipped for trying to shelter another poor soul and for being homeless though she had no choice?”

“The parish doesn’t allow vagrancy,” replied the Beddell. “It’s the law.”

John raised his arms and spread them wide. “Then we, the church, are just as guilty. We all ought to be bound and likewise whipped for not extending our hand to assist these two women in their direst time of need.”

“It’s the church’s duty to help the poor by driving the vice from their bodies and setting them to profitable work,” the Beddell called.

“The homeless and beggars aren’t filled with vice nor are they criminals simply because they are poor.”

The authority in John’s voice sent a tremor through Elizabeth’s body. She swayed and tightened her grip on Anne. “Oh, Lord, please,” she whispered.

“We, my brothers and sisters, are filled with vice when we can so callously and contemptuously spurn these helpless souls, rather than showing them the true love of God.” The crowd had turned to face John, drawing closer to him as he spoke.

“They have lived the sinful lives of harlots,” the Beddell shouted, “and now have only received their due punishment.”

“Perhaps they have lived in sin and brought God’s judgment upon themselves. But were they at fault for losing their home and resorting to vagrancy to survive?”

The crowd began to murmur and nod at John’s words.

“We would all do well to remember the words of Jesus to the Pharisees, ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’ ”

Elizabeth smiled weakly. “He’s doing good, isn’t he?” she whispered to Anne.

Anne squeezed her arm.

John didn’t need to speak much longer before the people began shouting out their agreement. And just as their calls to the Beddell turned angry, John jumped down from his post and approached the public green.

The rumors that wove through the crowd made her heart lurch and weakened her knees until she sagged against Anne. She closed her eyes to block out the dizzying sounds.

Finally one rumor broke through the clamor raging through her head: the Beddell of Beggars would release one of the prisoners.

The news was all she needed to hear before she collapsed.

* * *

“Take her up to the bed.” Her father’s voice was distant.

Anne’s sobs hovered above her in a dreamlike world.

Strong arms lifted and cradled her the way she carried Thomas.

Rough woven linen scratched her cheek and nose. She took a deep breath of woodsmoke and metal. The scent was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

Her face bumped against a hard chest, and the pounding thump of a heartbeat echoed through her ear.

She pried opened her eyes and lifted her head.

Bright blue eyes peered at her from between scraggly locks of rusty hair.

“John?” The name slipped out, unbidden, a whisper.

His gaze was solemn. “You’re still not well. We must get you back to your bed.”

He carried her up the stairs, his footsteps slow and hesitant. She knew she ought to protest. She was not petite nor light of stature—she would be no easy burden to bear.

Nor was the situation prudent. He had discarded his doublet. His coarse shirt was all that separated her from the heat of his chest. One of his powerful arms rested beneath her neck. The other was locked under her knees and inadvertently pressed against her backside.